To Absent Friends
by wilma.de.worde
Summary: IN PROGRESS. In the wake of a tragic loss, John is in pieces and Sherlock must determine the best course of action for all three of them. (JohnLock; ParentLock; appearances by Will, Mrs. Hudson, and the rest of the gang; potential TW: death, depression, self-harm, etc.)
1. Stop All the Clocks

Six days had passed. John still wasn't speaking.

Sherlock tiptoed around the unfamiliar flat, biting his tongue and giving the master bedroom a wide berth. The void in his gut had been eating him alive ever since that terrible morning. He pushed it out of his mind for the hundredth time that day and focused on the tiny bundle in his arms. It was lucky, he decided, that he didn't know. He would find out some day, of course, but that was a long time off. Perhaps John would come around by then.

There was a gentle knock at the door.

Mrs. Hudson offered a soft, tired smile, a look he had grown accustomed to as of late. He bent to kiss her cheek.

'How's our little one getting on?' she asked.

He glanced down at the sleeping child who shifted into a slow, one-armed stretch. 'Remarkably well, considering his caretaker.'

He chose to ignore the tears at the corners of her eyes as she squeezed his arm. 'He's a very lucky boy.'

He smiled, tight-lipped, a now-familiar lump settling in his throat. 'Thank you for watching him this morning.'

'My pleasure.' She offered her arms and Sherlock shifted, passing the baby to her as if he were made of glass.

'I've got his bag and everything in the car. It's just outside. I'm hoping he'll sleep the whole time, but I'm not confident in that.'

'I'm sure we'll manage.' She smiled through a quavering sigh. 'Well, I'll be off. See you shortly.'

He held the door for her. 'Yes, thank you.'

The click of the latch was as loud as thunder.

His arms felt too long without the weight of the baby. He slipped his hands into his pockets and turned back to the empty flat. There didn't seem to be enough time. He wandered into the guest bath to wash his hands and adjusted his tie in the mirror. His hair was out of sorts. He combed his fingers through it to no avail. The clock read 9.45. He took a deep breath and headed for the bedroom.

John was seated at the end of the bed and staring out the window, just as he had been since that morning. The only evidence that he'd moved at all was the exchange of his rumpled hospital clothes for the suit from the back of his closet. The sleeves of his jacket were a hair too short and the trousers needed to be taken out. His tie was knotted in a perfect half Windsor. Sherlock felt sick to his stomach all over again. He cleared his throat. John blinked but didn't turn.

His face was gaunt, dense bags beneath his steely eyes. No sleep. No tears. Not since that morning. Sherlock swallowed hard and forced his voice to stay steady. 'It's time,' he said.

It was a beautiful day.

John leaned back against his headrest, eyes locked on the sunny London morning as it passed by the taxi window. His hands on his knees were discomforting in their steadiness. Sherlock tried to no avail to stop himself from repeatedly glancing at his friend. Every nerve in his body ached to take John's hand, touch his shoulder, crush him against the freshly laundered fabric of his shirt and never let him go. Instead he set his hands in his lap and clasped them together until his knuckles turned white.

At least it was a small affair. The news hadn't been made public. Molly had made a few discrete calls to the appropriate channels, inviting just enough attendees so John wouldn't be alone. A few of her friends, weepy and despondent. Lestrade mumbling gruff but comforting words. Mrs. Hudson and the baby, of course. Flowers from Sherlock's parents. Major Sholto stopped by to offer his condolences and a sharp salute; that had been a nice touch. John had nodded to all, face grave and lips tight. His shoulders stooped with the thump of dirt on the polished wood of the coffin. Molly had squeezed his fingers and he shook his head, slipping away the moment the vicar finished the final blessing. Sherlock watched him go.

'He's not eating,' Molly said, close to his side but not touching. Sherlock swallowed and shook his head, the only confirmation he could offer. 'Have you spoken with him at all?'

'He isn't speaking.'

He could feel her eyes on his face, steady and worried. 'And the baby?' It took him a moment to shake his head again. It felt like betrayal. Molly's hand slipped through the crook of his arm and she leaned against him a moment. 'You'll let me know, won't you? If there's anything I can do.'

John stood in the shade of an ancient tree, his gaze pointed toward the other side of the cemetery. Sherlock sighed through the stone in his chest, his hand finding Molly's on his elbow. 'You've already done so much.'

'Sherlock.' He dragged his eyes away from John and met hers. He found himself sucking on his bottom lip, refusing to allow any tears to escape. Her smile was soft but genuine. She nodded at him. 'You're not alone. We'll get him through this one day.'

He nodded in reply. It was better than telling the truth.

That afternoon it rained. John returned to his room without a word and closed the door. Sherlock fed the baby to keep from screaming.


	2. Ten Thousand Miles Deep

Molly kept texting him. She'd been at it all day. He had buried his phone in the back of the closet beneath the hated suit and the dirty laundry. He could still hear it buzzing when he shut his eyes. But then nothing good seemed to happen when he shut his eyes, at least not as of late.

There once was a time when he slept through the night. He didn't think he would ever get that back.

Throughout his life, his nightmares came and went. He could go months without them, so much so that he'd lost track of the number of times he'd thought he was free of them for good. Then, of course, something would happen: too much stress at the surgery, a particularly gruesome crime scene, even Harry ringing him up in another one of her black moods. Something would set off the wrong chemicals in his brain and he'd find himself jarred awake in the dark and queasy, the cries of his dying comrades still ringing in his ears.

He learned to cope. The bleak, rickety mornings became more tolerable. He biked the longer route to work. He added sugar to his tea. He buried himself beneath the bizarre problems of others until he forgot about his own. Ella had said that distractions were key. So he kept busy. He stayed focused. And, minute by minute, the day moved on.

His nightmares came and went; he didn't mention them when they happened. He hadn't had a proper flashback in years. His limp was gone. The notes in Ella's office praised his recovery, crediting his increased life balance and work stability.

The memories never faded.

That was something Ella didn't seem to understand. Forgetting wasn't an option. No matter how much progress he seemed to be making, no matter how focused he was on his life and moving forward, there came at least one moment in every day when he saw those vacant eyes and his muddy, blood-drenched hands.

He didn't tell anyone about those moments anymore.

What would be the point? More worry, more therapy, more pitying stares? He'd had enough of that to last a lifetime. He'd survived everything else so far. Ghosts were hardly as terrifying as war and psychopaths and being alone. So he kept quiet, and the memories were content to simmer under the surface of his practised composure.

He was drowning in them now. There was no shore in sight. He crawled beneath the eiderdown and waited for his breathing to slow, knowing it never would.


	3. The Threaded Dances

The silence was oppressive. Sherlock found himself hiding in the small nursery, grateful beyond measure for the baby's reliable noises and comforting smells. The trek to the kitchen to prepare his bottle was cold and hollow, like walking through a tomb. He hadn't seen John in two days. Molly wouldn't stop calling him. He ignored her. There was nothing he could say.

The baby was sleeping now and he felt like his skin was on fire. He flicked on the monitor and decided to take a shower, if only for the noise it would create. Pulling fresh clothes out of the bag Mrs Hudson had insisted on bringing him, he slipped out of the nursery. Silence. Always silence. He couldn't resist the pull of the master bedroom, the dull ache to save his grieving friend. The door remained closed. He bit back the strain in his chest and wandered to the loo.

He bathed quickly, half an ear cocked to the monitor crackling on the sink. The baby hadn't woken up yet. He dried himself with one of the large, expensive guest towels, eyeing the silver W some machine had left there. A smile tugged at his lips as he recalled John's soliloquy following the receipt of these towels – a wedding gift from some elderly aunt who, in John's words, 'couldn't possibly conceive that towels should _absorb_ water when in use'. Mary had insisted on putting them out, of course. She was better at faking gratitude when it came to that sort of thing. He swallowed hard and took great care to fold the towel before hanging it, his fingers tracing the uniform stitches. He shook it off and pulled on his clothes. He needed to get back to the nursery. The baby might wake. John hadn't eaten in three days.

He wasn't sure if he would last much longer.

Sherlock tossed his clothes in the hamper without a second thought and wandered to the kitchen, turning on the kettle before peeking in the fridge. He shoved past the well-intended cold-cuts and vegetable trays to find a carton of eggs. He glanced at the window. It was growing dark. He decided that didn't matter. He found a pan after a moment's searching and heated it up, pulling two mugs from the cupboard and buttering bread while he waited.

He carried the sandwich to the glaring bedroom door, setting the plate and a mug of tea on the carpet before knocking gently. The bed shifted in the next room and he shuffled down the hall to the nursery. He flicked off the monitor before climbing into the padded rocking chair. He heard the hated door open and there was a soft clink as plate and mug bumped against each other. He started breathing again and turned his gaze back to the sleeping baby.

Perhaps tonight wouldn't be quite as long of a night.


	4. Locked and Frozen

John waited until late to make his way to the kitchen and return his dishes. He found he didn't have the energy to do the washing up. His hands dug into his pockets as he stood lost in the empty flat. He felt twitchy. He needed a walk. He knew he couldn't have one.

Soft golden light filtered out through the cracked door of the nursery and onto the hall carpeting. He hadn't gone near that door in days, hadn't so much as glanced at his son since before they'd left Bart's - terrified he'd look at him and only see his mother. Even more terrifying was the thought that he wouldn't see her at all.

He took a breath. He would have to face up to it someday.

The room was so much more Mary than him: painted mural on the wall instead of the tatty wallpaper they'd had when he moved in; light furniture as opposed to the dark wood he'd preferred since living on Baker Street. He took a deep breath and nudged open the door, hell-bent on taking one look at his son before he lost his nerve again.

He hadn't prepared for this.

The baby was sound asleep. Soft, cherubic noises escaped him as he breathed, nestled safely in Sherlock's arms. The rocking chair creaked with the occasional twitches of their dozing bodies. Sherlock had propped his foot against the enamelled toy box to steady their rocking. John couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his feet. He swallowed hard, the air suddenly too thick to breathe. Sherlock's colour was all wrong: too pale and ashen; he looked gaunt. No one was making him eat. John had eaten. Sherlock had fixed him his favourite sandwich and made him tea just the way he liked it. Then he'd gone back to the nursery. Always in the nursery. Sherlock hadn't left the baby for more than five minutes since they'd left hospital.

There was a swelling in his chest at the thought and he hated himself for it.

He tore his eyes away from the son he couldn't bring himself to name and the man he insisted was just his friend, the void of the darkened flat opening its arms to him. His hand found the doorframe and he bit back the sickly-sweet memories and abandoned plans.

'John.'

A soft voice in the weak light, so quiet and steady he wasn't sure if it was real or imagined. His head turned back of its own volition and he saw a searching, hopeful gaze out of the corner of his eye. He licked his lips, closing his eyes to silence the odd pattern of his pulse, the shame and guilt and helpless desire to fall apart and weep and apologise until those slender arms folded around him and some tiny portion of the world made sense again.

Curled up alone on the cold eiderdown of his empty marriage bed, he wondered what his nightmares would bring.


	5. If I Knew More Clearly

He refused to leave the flat. Mrs Hudson was worried, but he didn't care. There wasn't anything important outside anyway. He'd made a compromise with her and traded their dirty laundry for the tin of fresh biscuits she'd offered. They might convince John to open the bedroom door again and it would give her something to do.

His eyes were drawn to that detested ingress as they always seemed to be. Three days this time. It was becoming harder to stop himself from kicking the bloody thing down. Instead he put the biscuit tin in the cabinet and flicked on the kettle.

Is this what it was like, he wondered, after he'd dived from the top of Bart's? The question had plagued him since they'd gotten back from hospital. He'd never had the courage to ask John about those terrible years alone, especially not the days and weeks that immediately followed his disappearance. He wasn't even sure how John and Mary had met, or how they'd fallen in love, or when he'd moved in with her, or when he'd stopped-

He leaned against the worktop, realising all over again why he'd never brought any of these musings to light.

He'd kept John safe. He'd kept Moriarty away from him. He'd gone about it all wrong and he knew that now, but _John had been safe_. That was all that had mattered. There were a handful of others he'd sought to protect, yes, but mostly it was John and everyone knew it. John knew it, even if he couldn't quite look at Sherlock anymore.

He closed his eyes and bit back the tears that threatened to erupt. He didn't have time for this. The kettle boiled and he busied himself with the tea, hands still shaking when it had finally steeped enough to pour a decent cup. He grasped his mug with both hands and turned back towards the nursery.

John stood in the doorway a short distance ahead of him.

He distantly realised he had stopped breathing.

John's eyes were drawn to his feet. Sherlock followed his gaze and found no explanation for his interest. His voice crackled when he spoke, a sign of its lengthy disuse. 'Might I have a word?'

Sherlock swallowed, gripping his mug a little tighter. 'Of course you can.'

John leaned against the doorframe, hands jammed in his pockets. He took a long time to speak. 'I know these past few days, well. They couldn't have been easy for you. I wanted to apologise for my absence.'

'You don't have to-'

'Stop.' He closed his eyes, jaw set, packing away his anger. 'Don't. Alright? Don't say anything. Please. I need to tell you this.' Sherlock turned his attention to the cooling contents of his mug. John was quiet for a moment.

'I have been trying so hard to make any of this make sense and I'm don't seem to be capable of it. I love her-' He cleared his throat. 'I _loved _her so much and I did everything I thought I was supposed to do and none of it-_none _of it-mattered. And now, I just- I can hear her. Laughing. Because I am being such a fool. And she knew already. The whole time she knew. And I never said a word to her, I really didn't. But we were in her room before-' His breath had grown ragged. Sherlock glanced at him through the mess of his hair, unwashed and overgrown. A hand snuck out of John's pocket, steadying him on the doorframe, knuckles white. 'And I begged her to hold on just a little longer. And she told me that I shouldn't worry. Because you would take care of both of us.' He drew a shaking breath, the hand in his pocket balling into a fist. 'And I hate her for being right. I hate her for _always _being right. And I am so. _Angry_. With her. For knowing.' He swallowed. 'She knew and she didn't care. She knew _everything_. She was just like you. ' Sherlock's hands were shaking. John wouldn't look at him. 'Nothing in my life should feel worse than this, _absolutely nothing_. And the fact that that isn't the case is just- It's tearing me apart. Because this is so…easy. By comparison.' His eyes closed. Angry tears clung to his lashes. Sherlock set down his mug for fear of dropping it. 'And now she's gone; and I can't even look at him.' His voice was trembling. 'He deserves his mother. He deserves his _father_. And I can't-' He blinked hard, looking up and away and anywhere that wasn't at the man across from him, patient and silent. He forced himself to breathe. 'Sherlock-' He closed his eyes, loathing the goose bumps on his skin as he said that word. '…Sherlock. My wife is dead. My son has no mother. And all I've been doing since everything went wrong is sitting on that empty bed and wishing I could hold you.' He shook his head and swallowed, waiting for his voice to stop quavering. 'What kind of monster does that make me?'

Sherlock's hands twitched at his sides. His chest ached. 'You're not,' he whispered. He wet his lips. 'You're the best and bravest man either of us ever knew.'

He looked at him then, and Sherlock saw years of anger and sorrow and cautious joy, a thousand memories, the scars of wars fought separate and alone. 'I _hate _myself.' He closed his eyes again, wilting against the doorframe. 'I hate myself so much for this.'

'What do you need? Tell me, please. I'll do anything you ask.'

John met his gaze, face blotchy, no longer keeping the hot tears at bay. His voice cracked. 'I want to go home.' He drew a shuddering breath, scrubbing at his face. 'Please, just take me home. Kidneys in the blender and the violin at three in the morning, I don't care, I just-' He sobbed. 'I'm too tired to keep pretending.' His eyes red-rimmed and pleading. 'I can't do this anymore, love.'

'John-'

'Please, Sherlock.' His broken, hopeless face, desperate and miserable and stopping Sherlock's heart. 'I want my family back.'

There was nothing he could say.

Sherlock's arms were around him without a moment's hesitation, his fingers reaching of their own volition into his greasy hair. John collapsed into him, his sobs muffled against Sherlock's chest, his embrace tight and unyielding despite the weakness of his body. Sherlock breathed in the sleepless nights and suffocating worry, weeping as John's blunt nails dug through the thin fabric of his shirt and into his back, just as they had so many times before, just as they hadn't for a lifetime at least. The frantic buzzing of his mind ceased. And everything outside the circumference of their bodies was wrong and cold and terrible. And none of it mattered, not at the moment.

And the moment went on.

John's hands fisted Sherlock's shirt, his face rubbing hard against his chest. He coughed on a sob, his tears seeping through to dampen Sherlock's ribs. Sherlock buried his nose in John's hair, body quaking, skin on fire. 'I'm so sorry -'

His arms tightened, his voice a whisper. 'Please don't leave me.'

'Never,' he sobbed, fingers knitting in his hair. 'I promise, John. Never again.'

John nodded against him, his breath rattling through the phlegm in his chest. He loosened his grip, palms flat on Sherlock's back. 'I don't know what to do.'

Sherlock pulled back just enough to rub his face across his sleeve. 'You don't have to do anything.'

'I can't even look at him.'

Maybe it was wrong to smile, even so stiffly, but he found he couldn't help himself. John was here and speaking and his hands were cupping his cheeks, his thumbs wiping away the bitter, errant tears. Life was possible again, no matter how difficult it might be. 'Do you want one more try?'

John closed his eyes, warmed by his hands, swallowing hard. He squeezed Sherlock's shoulders. 'Come with me?'

'Of course.'

He nodded. 'Alright.'

They stood on the threshold of the nursery, and John tried to remember that he wasn't dreaming. He could see the crib Mary had took such pains to select, the crisp, cheery bedding, a small, socked foot. He closed his eyes. 'Jesus.' Long fingers squeezed around his hand and pulled him back down to Earth. He pushed himself into the room before he started thinking again, Sherlock trailing behind.

He had shifted onto his side and kicked off one of his socks. His hand laid splayed on the bedding palm up, pink and wrinkled. John blinked and found himself reaching into the crib to touch it. Tiny fingers wrapped around his index finger and squeezed. The baby cooed and grunted and continued to dream.

'He keeps rolling in his sleep,' Sherlock murmured. 'I've readjusted him a few times, but he always goes back to his side. I don't even know how he's doing it; he's supposed to be too young for that, all of the books said so.'

'He must get it from his mum.' John felt his voice crack again. He swallowed hard and sucked in his cheek. Sherlock's hand slipped out of his grip and rested against his lower back. John leaned against him without realising it. 'What am I going to tell him?'

Sherlock watched the baby's hand gripping tight to his father's finger. He took a breath to stifle his building tears. 'You'll tell him the truth: that she loved him more than anything. That she's proud of him and you're going to take care of him.'

'But I don't know how.'

'Of course you do. You're doing it right now.'

John glanced up at the man next to him, his gaze fixed on the sleeping child. He blinked hard, and gulped for air. His hand reached to cover the pale fingers resting over the railing of the crib. He squeezed gently. '_We'll_ take care of him. The both of us.'

Sherlock chewed on his bottom lip. He nodded after a moment. 'Of course we will.' The ghost of his old smile appeared, warming John's belly as he peeked at him under his fringe. 'I thought that much would be obvious.'


	6. Crooked as Corkscrews

Mrs Hudson was happy to help with the arrangements. Sherlock called in one of his hundred favours and suitable furniture was on its way to Baker Street. John couldn't bring himself to move the items in the nursery, nor could he find a way to pack his books and few belongings. It felt like betrayal somehow. He shoved a handful of clothes and necessities in his tattered holdall and sat on the living room sofa, waiting for Sherlock to finish his frenzied packing and call them a cab.

Neither of them had spoken about the night before.

Perhaps to Sherlock there was nothing to talk about it. It wasn't as if anything monumental had occurred. John had been on a downward spiral for days and the flat was no doubt contributing. He had finally cracked, Sherlock had comforted him, and John was coming back to where Sherlock no doubt felt he belonged. A simple, logical solution to an unfortunate but uncomplicated problem. That would be just like him.

God, it must be nice to be Sherlock Holmes: to observe and inventory and not have to _feel_. It must have been reflexive, _mechanised_, offering John a hug and words he no doubt picked up from some grief counselling textbook and sitting by John's bedside until he succumbed to a brief, fitful dream and the baby was due for another feeding. It must have been a comfort to wake up alone and know you had performed your duty as friend and confidant.

_We both know you don't really believe that_,whispered a soft voice in his mind. He swore under his breath and wondered if he'd always hate her for being right.

Sherlock insisted on John taking the downstairs bedroom. If he'd been in a better state, he would have argued. Sherlock had been dozing on the sofa or in the nursery chair ever since they'd gotten back from hospital and it had to be affecting his neck and back. But the new crib was already upstairs and Mrs Hudson had laid out her lilo on the floor next to it and he was adamant that John needed privacy and rest. As soon as he walked into the familiar room and set down his bag, he found it impossible to debate the topic any longer. Clothes strewn about the floor, every surface cluttered with hare-brained disguises and unidentifiable objects, it was every foreign longing he'd felt since his return from Appledore.

He kicked off his shoes and found himself curling up beneath the eiderdown: warm and soft and unwashed despite Mrs Hudson's earlier offer to change the sheets. Sherlock had told her there were more important things to do. John could still smell him in the bedding despite the days since he had last occupied it. _You were dead the last time I laid in this bed._ He tried not to think of the times before that. He closed his eyes and breathed in the sweet, sweaty fabric, wondering if he would ever again feel like his body fit together in the intended manner. His chest was bursting; there was gravel in his throat that refused to be swallowed. He allowed the tears to come.

When he awoke several hours later, the bedroom was warm with dusk light. His fuzzy brain registered that this was the first proper sleep he'd gotten in days. He rolled onto his back and stretched. Someone had left a plate of biscuits on the nightstand and a cup of tea. It was still warm.

He didn't see much of Sherlock over the next few days. He lay in the safety of his former bed, sleeping at odd hours and listening to the soft, comforting sounds of the flat. A tray appeared outside his door whenever he was hungry. Mrs Hudson's voice carried from the kitchen from time to time, but Sherlock kept her out of the bedroom. He was grateful for that. He was grateful for so many things.

He found himself waking to Sherlock's rhythms. Every few hours, soft steps descended the stairs and he heard the stifled rattle of pot and stovetop as the baby's bottle was heated. Sherlock always had it warmed and ready before the crying started. His quiet baritone rumbled down the stairs as he greeted the baby and soothed his wails. John marvelled at his intuition.

On the fourth night, his eyes opened a few minutes before the reliable creaks and kitchen rustling. He waited for Sherlock to ascend the stairs before he untangled himself from the covers and tiptoed to the landing. The baby's first cry muffled his feet on the old treads, his palms sweating into the wallpaper as he hid in the shadows. He prayed Sherlock wouldn't hear the pounding of his heart.

'Shh… It's alright, darling. You're alright. Yes, everything's alright.'

John closed his eyes. He drew a soft, stuttering breath.

'What's the fuss? You're not wet, are you? …Good. I don't like that part much; I must be honest with you. Nothing personal. You don't seem too fond of it yourself. Hungry, then? Let's see about that. There… That's better, isn't it? Good Lord, you _are_ hungry. Steady on, love. We've got plenty of time.'

He felt his knees buckling under the heaviness in his stomach. He sank down the wall and sat on the musty step. For a few minutes, the only sounds he heard were the low squelch of the baby nursing and the squeaking of the borrowed rocking chair.

'I wish I could tell you more things, darling. How your mum and dad met, what they were like starting out. Those are the things I liked to hear about when I was… Well, not _your_ size exactly, but not much bigger than you, either. But I wasn't around for all of that. I can't tell you anything at all. Really mucked things up for a while, I'm afraid. But you don't want to hear about that...'

The chair halted. 'Not done? Gracious. Where are you putting all of that? You're going to make me regret this later, aren't you?' John couldn't help smiling.

'I can tell you how I met your mum. Would you like that? Alright.' Sherlock cleared his throat. 'I sort of crashed your dad's proposal. Don't look at me like that; you know it was in character. I didn't realise he was proposing at the time, of course. He clocked me for that. Twice, I think. Yes, I know, I deserved it. Don't rub it in. I liked your mum, though, right off. They were really good together. You've got fantastic parents, just top notch. Much better than mine. Don't tell them I said that.' There was a rushing in John's ears. He swallowed to try and silence it. 'I'm pitiful at this compared to your mum. She was brilliant at it. I can't wait for you to grow up enough to know how hopeless I am. …But you've got the best dad in the world.' The baby grumbled in agreement. 'You've no idea how lucky you are.'

He was gripping the bannister hard enough to hear the wood whine under his fingers. Sherlock's voice sounded a thousand miles away. 'We're both so lucky, aren't we? In spite of everything. I wonder what we did to deserve that.' His son cooed. 'Finished? Cleared that one right out. Well done, you. Shh, shh… There you are…' The hot tears erupted and burned his cheeks. The baby burped and hiccupped. 'I beg your pardon. We'll work on your table manners later; don't you worry. Alright, love. Let's see if we can get you back to sleep.'

He wasn't sure how long he sat on the stairs, the rocking chair thudding quietly above him. His leg began to cramp and he didn't care. After a time, he heard Sherlock stand and settle the baby back into his crib, down-soft mumbles drifting down the stairs as he eased him into the bedding. He heard his back crack and a low, throaty growl before he shuffled to the lilo and lay down once more. John leaned his head against the wall and waited for Sherlock's breathing to slow.


	7. Time and Fevers

_Is it a memory or a dream? He isn't sure and perhaps it doesn't matter; perhaps they are one and the same. He's not about to question the logistics now, adrift in the soft, cream, rose-scented room, his lost wife joyous and exhausted, their baby in her arms. He knows with absolute certainty that he is about to lose her again. Sweat will pour from her brow, her body will convulse, his pleading cries will fall on deaf ears. Another secret she'd kept from him. He closes his eyes and tamps his anger, his sorrow, needing this stolen moment, this brief perfection. She's watching him, her smile unsure. He pets their son's hair._

_ 'What are we going to call him?'_

_ 'What do you mean?' How many times has he replayed this conversation now? How long has it haunted his dreams?_

_ 'Well, we can't call him Alice...'_

_ He laughs, softly so as not to wake the baby. 'I suppose not. What do you want to call him?'_

_ Her broad, mischievous grin, ever in trouble, ever up to something. 'How about Will?'_

_ 'Mary-'_

_ 'It would be worth it just to see his face.'_

_ 'We are _not_ naming our son after Sherlock Holmes.'_

_ 'Why not? He'll be his godfather at the very least.'_

_ She must catch his swallow, the momentary unevenness of his breath. She sees and she doesn't care. She already knows. So clever; they're both so clever. Much too clever for John Watson._

_ 'William,' she muses, her tone more even, less tired. 'After his dad.'_

_ His brows furrow and his gaze returns to her face: clean and glowing, composed as she appraises him, the baby nestled against her. The sounds of the hospital have disappeared._

_ 'Why do you keep fighting it, John? There's nothing to lose.'_

_ Her eyes so calm, wide and deep, confident in her knowledge. 'I love _you_, Mary.' _

_ 'I know you do. That doesn't change anything. It never made a difference when I was alive.'_

_ 'I never- Damn it, I wanted _you_!'_

_ 'Of course you did. You're clever, too.' He doesn't mean to chuckle. But, then, he never did. Her hand finds his on the bed, her skin cold and clammy even in his dreams. 'It's done now, John. You can't go back and change it.'_

_ 'I wish I could.'_

_ 'Why?' She shakes her head, her knowing smile infuriating him. 'Why would you want a life without him?' His fingers soothe the down-soft hair on Will's head. 'We were a family for hardly an hour. It was the best hour of my life. Would you take that away from me?'_

_ A sob creeps up his throat. He wants to collapse and fade away, find out the place she's been hiding and leave all this behind. He's lost too much. How can there be anything left?_

_ 'John.' He shakes his head. He can't tear his eyes away from her. 'It's time.'_

_ 'No.'_

_ 'I'm sorry.'_

_ 'I'm not ready.'_

_ 'No one ever is.' She squeezes his hand, her image already beginning to dissolve. 'What did I tell you before? I was right, wasn't I? I've always been right.'_

_ 'Mary, please-'_

_ 'They need you, John. Go to them.' Her voice just a whisper, the baby, the hospital room, the even winter light dipping into darkness. 'I'll still be right here.'_

He woke with a start and a yelp, his hand flying to stifle his cry as soon as it escaped. His ears strained to hear racing steps in the corridor, but the flat was still. He fell back against the pillows, burying himself beneath the eiderdown and the torturous, achingly familiar scent, his body shaking and lost.


	8. Make a Vineyard

They'd been back at Baker Street for a fortnight. Or was it longer than that? His mind didn't seem to be working as well as it once had. He tried to be concerned, but that took too much energy. The important things: he was in his flat; John was downstairs; baby was - he peeked down at the intimidating frown - toying with him, surely. Anyway, they were safe. The rest would come back to him.

He couldn't remember ever being this tired. Tired wasn't something he felt as a general rule. Now he was exhausted, his eyes puffy and red, kept open only by sheer force of will. He glanced at the baby again, sleeping at long last, and shifted his arms to test the waters. He muttered but didn't stir. Warm relief spread through him and he climbed to his feet, settling him back in the crib. He could feel the lilo glaring at him from the bedroom floor, the personification labelled as ludicrous by the tiny portion of his brain that was still capable of rational thought. He kicked it with his toe and began the arduous process of convincing himself to crawl back onto it.

John was at the door. He hadn't noticed that before. It wasn't like him to miss those things. His brow furrowed.

'Hullo.' John didn't say anything. He stood with his hands in his pockets. Sleepy panic gripped Sherlock's chest. 'Are you alright?' He nodded. He wouldn't look up. He sounded frantic and foreign to his own ears. 'What is it, John?'

He swallowed. His voice was raw. 'Did you pack the monitor?'

His brow furrowed. 'Yes.'

'Grab it, please?'

His words trickled in through the cracks of Sherlock's foggy brain. 'Grab it?'

'You need to sleep.'

'John-'

'I need to sleep, too.' Sherlock stared at him. John returned his gaze. 'Please get it?'

He forced himself to the changing table, tugging out the instruments and setting one near the baby's crib. He flicked them both on.

John was offering him his hand. Sherlock took it.

He wasn't sure how he made it down the stairs.

They stood for a moment just inside the door of the room he still thought of as theirs. His feet seemed trapped-like quicksand, like setting cement, the room far too big to fit into the modest flat. His stomach fluttered with uncertainty. John tugged him toward the bed, gentle fingers finding the buttons of his shirt.

'John?'

'Yes, love?'

He shivered, stepping out of his trousers as John pushed them to the floor. He couldn't speak. John didn't press him further.

He was pulled onto the bed and under the eiderdown. Strong, steady arms wrapped around him. He was unconscious before his head touched the pillow.

He awoke with a start, arms flailing against the heaviness leaning on his torso. Where was he? Where was the crib, the carpet, the shrieking baby? A sound, a voice, something familiar, mumbled at him. He didn't understand the words.

'Have to-' He wasn't sure of the rest, knowing only the fierce instinct in his chest demanding that action be taken.

'Let me.' The vice around him tightened, then released him. The neurons in his brain slid about in a frenzy, assembling the source of the weight now leaving his chest.

'John-?'

'I've got him. Go back to sleep.'

He was too exhausted to argue, his mind surrendering its confusion to the warm softness beneath his body. He was dead asleep before John reached the door.

When he returned some time later, Sherlock was snoring softly, flopped uncaring in the middle of the bed. John wondered to find himself rolling his eyes as he inched his way into the bed. Sherlock's eyes flew open with a gasp.

'The baby-'

'Shh…' He climbed the rest of the way under the eiderdown, sighing as his back stretched out across the mattress. 'He's okay. Everything's okay.'

Sherlock blinked hard, his breath uneven, voice heavy from fatigue. 'John?'

'What?'

'We're in a bed, John.'

'Your bed, yes.'

'But you're in it.'

'So are you.'

He sniffled, puzzlement clear on his features. 'Is that alright?'

John yawned, half-dozing already. 'Go back to sleep, Sherly. We can talk about it in the morning.'

Sherlock found he couldn't argue, his head falling to John's chest with a heavy thud. He was barely aware of John's arms wrapping around him once more, his nose nuzzling into his tangled hair.

The baby slept the rest of the night.


	9. Only the Meek

He had almost forgotten the pattern of the morning light at the foot of his bed; it had been so long since he'd seen it. The warmth on his toes tugged him gently into wakefulness. Bits and pieces of the night before began to click into place and he spent a moment following the events with interest. He took his time rolling over and found the other side of the bed empty. He couldn't breathe then, cursing himself for his stupidity and ridiculous hope.

There was a soft crackle behind him. He turned amazed to the monitor.

It sounded like singing.

He pulled off the covers and tumbled to the floor, tangled for a moment in the clothes discarded there only a few hours before. He leapt to his feet and raced through the flat, taking the stairs two at a time to reach the baby's room.

His breath caught in his chest. John looked up at him from the old rocking chair, the baby burrowed in his arms and nursing from the familiar bottle. John raised his eyebrows.

'Are you alright? I heard crashing.'

'Am I-? …Yes.' He flushed. 'Yes, I'm fine.'

John nodded, eyes still wide. 'Good. Good to hear.'

Sherlock realised it was rather chilly in the room when one was only wearing pants. He cleared his throat. 'Have you eaten?'

'No.'

'Alright.' He nodded with far more decisiveness than he truly felt and turned, padding back down the stairs and into the kitchen.

It had been an interesting morning so far.

John appeared a short time later, the baby still in his arms and sleeping. He lowered himself into a chair at the kitchen table and watched Sherlock's scattered movements with detached curiosity. He had yet to find a suitable pair of trousers, which ought to be odd, but he _was_ Sherlock, after all. John bit back an admonishment that sputtering grease and bare skin often tended to disagree. It seemed too familiar a thing to say, and Sherlock was already acting a bit more manic than usual. His choice to keep silent certainly had nothing to do with the shift of Sherlock's back as he fought with skillet and cabinet, nor the unbidden memory of the last time John had seem him like this.

That bloody dream was throwing him for a loop. He could kick himself for allowing it to cloud his judgment, for believing for one moment that he could ask this man for physical comfort-no matter how innocent or reserved, no matter that both of them were in dire need of it-and not feel out of sorts the next morning. Now his bones ached and his stomach squelched and his mind was all too happy to match every passing moment with one bittersweet, buried recollection after another.

John decided he would quite like to hit something very, _very_ hard.

A steaming plate was deposited in front of him: beans and toast and good, thick sausages that wafted to his nose and made him dizzy with hunger. 'We're out of eggs,' Sherlock offered.

'That's alright.'

'Alright.' He hesitated a moment before he sat opposite John with his own plate in hand. He tugged his dressing gown tighter around him before spearing a single bean with his fork. John resisted the urge to look at him.

He'd forgotten how excellent Sherlock's cookery was. 'Forgotten' probably wasn't the right word; more like 'attempted to delete but ultimately failed'. A strained giggle threatened to escape his chest at the thought. He cleared his throat, the sound echoing around the kitchen. As if he could 'delete' anything regarding Sherlock Holmes and his excellent sausage. He choked on his tea. _Jesus Christ, what is _wrong _with me today?_

'We should take care of that.'

He started, terrified that he'd said any of these things aloud. 'P-Pardon?'

He gestured vaguely. 'The christening.'

'Oh.' John wondered if he'd missed the start of this conversation or if it had only existed in Sherlock's head. 'Right.'

'Get it out of the way.'

'Sure.'

'There's bound to be…one of those law things.'

'Probably.'

'Right.' He swallowed and busied himself with pushing his beans about his plate. 'What's it going to be, then?'

'What?' John wondered, not for the first time, if mental whiplash was a viable medical concern.

'His name.'

'Oh! Uh. Will. William.' Sherlock's expression softened. 'Mary wanted it,' he barrelled on. 'She insisted. Made me promise. Her call. And such.'

'Of course.'

'So, yeah. That's- That's it, then. Will.'

'That's…good.'

'Yes.'

'Good.' He stabbed another bean, taking far longer to chew a single legume than should have been within the realms of human capability. 'I'll, uh, see to the arrangements.'

'That's…' He nodded. 'That's very kind. Thank you.'

'Happy to help.' His smile was strained and not quite reaching his eyes. John tried not to examine what was bubbling up in that particular feature. He didn't think he could survive it if they really were as hopeful and loving as he thought for a moment they might be. Sherlock cleared his throat and stood, carrying his overflowing plate to the sink. 'There's…uh. There's plenty more. If you're still hungry.'

'Right.'

'I'll just…yep.' He nodded and shuffled toward the loo. He paused as he passed by, and John felt a brief, tentative weight on his shoulder as long fingers squeezed his trapezius gently. The shower was running before he realised he hadn't imagined it.


	10. In a Haunted Wood

John called Molly later that morning. She sounded as if she might cry from joy.

They arranged to meet in the pub across the street from Bart's. She claimed to have the afternoon off, but John suspected she had sorted something out for his benefit. He appreciated the effort, or at least was prepared to act as if he did. _This is just one of those things_, he thought, _pretending to be okay for other people. _He wondered if Mary would have been proud of him.

Her smile was cautious and a touch forced. She chattered for some time about the hospital and informed him on the lives of various mutual acquaintances. John sipped his lager and nodded in the appropriate places. For a brief, guilty moment, he thought he might be able to leave the pub without discussing things like funerals or babies or the…whatever it was that was festering at present in the air of 221B. Sherlock, he realised, would have delighted in telling him how wrong he obviously was.

'John?' He glanced up. 'I don't think you called me just to grab a pint.' He didn't reply, his jaw shifting into a hard line. 'I know you don't want to talk about any of it,' she continued, her words boring into his gut and spraying acid up his throat. 'Avoiding it won't make anything better.'

He watched the foam of his lager bubble and pop, more than aware that he was taking too long to respond. 'I know that.'

Her head settled to one side and he realised how much he was regretting ever executing this conversation. 'It must be terrible for you.'

He chuffed. 'Yeah. Of course it is.'

'Is Sherlock being helpful?'

Warmth crept up the side of his neck. He fumed and prayed she didn't notice. 'He's doing quite a lot, yes.'

'So that's what's got you out of sorts.'

'I suppose.'

'Do you want to talk about it?'

'What's there to talk about?'

'Loads?'

'You know what I mean.'

'I think you need to talk about it all, John. I think you need to get it all out of your system before you explode.'

'It won't change anything.'

'It might make a difference. It might mean something to him.'

He wanted to glare at her. He wanted to tell her off for making assumptions and overstepping her bounds and insinuating all sorts of ridiculous things, but of course he couldn't. God knew she had figured them out long before they had ever managed it. He could see her now-it seemed like a lifetime ago-face pinched and furious, screaming at Sherlock for lying to her about the nature of their association, shouting at John for the enthusiastic bit of snogging that had caused Sherlock to slip and sprain his wrist. The memory tugged at his chest like someone pulling on a fresh suture. He averted his eyes, his fingers stilling on the table.

'Could I give you some advice?' He shrugged. He never used to shrug. He used to say 'yes' or 'no' or 'thank you, I can manage'. He had never been non-committal before. He hadn't been a lot of things before. Molly shifted closer. She smelled of Clinique and antiseptic and John tried not to think about the last time he'd been this close to a living, breathing woman. 'I know it hasn't been long, and I know you're a bit mixed up right now.' John snorted and took a too-large gulp. She waited until he stopped coughing to continue. 'You two really need each other. Not just now, but for the rest of your lives. He still loves you-' His eyes were too calm. She felt her throat close up against her words. 'He does, John. You know he does. He's never been happier than when you two were boy-'

'No.' Molly's teeth clicked shut, face burning as she realised her mistake. 'Don't say that. Don't even-' He pursed his lips and looked away a moment. '_Sherlock_,' he said, 'Was not my boyfriend.'

'John-'

'He was _never_ my boyfriend. I don't care what was going on between us and what you knew-what _anyone _knew-about…about _whatever it bloody was_. He was never that. And do you know why?' Her eyes were impossibly wide. 'Because _boyfriends_ do nice things for you. _Boyfriends _take you to dinner and remember your birthday and-_yes, I know he did all of that_-but _boyfriends _don't feel the need to _supplement _that with throwing themselves off of buildings and _pretending to be dead_ for two fucking years! You don't do that to someone you love! That is not a thing you do!'

'No,' she whispered. 'That's a thing Sherlock Holmes would do.'

'Jesus Christ…' John wiped at his face, exhausted by everyone else in the whole dismal world being right except _him_.

'Have you _ever _talked about that day? Did he tell you _anything_ about it?'

'I don't need to know, Molly.'

'You do. You absolutely do. You stupid git.' She wore the same frown that came with a hard slap to the cheek and an admonishment that he ought to be ashamed of himself. 'We sat in that building just across the street and he told me what he had to do. And I _begged _him not to, John. I begged him not to leave you.'

'Stop it.'

'He was so lost. He was miserable and scared and do you know what he told me?'

'Is this really the place for this conversation?'

'"I can't live without him," he said. "How can I go on if my heart stops beating?"'

John closed his eyes. 'Molly, please-'

'I know it's too soon. And I know you're still angry with yourself for letting her go through with it.'

'I didn't _know_-'

'And that only makes it worse; I know it does. But _she_ did know. And if you think for one minute that she didn't work this whole thing out beforehand, you really are a stupid git.'

'You know, it would be so nice if someone would just look at things from my perspective for once.'

'I _am _looking at it from your perspective, John. You're frustrated and irritated-'

'No, I'm _very pissed off_.'

'And you've every right to be. And I'm sure Sherlock is being impossible and distant because he's _Sherlock _after all and that's not making this decision any easier.'

John snorted. '_What _decision?'

'The decision on whether or not you're going to let him back in.'

'Uh, I don't think that's my decision to make. Not since…since His _Insufferableness _decided to step in and take control.' He felt flushed, his anger boiling over before he'd had any chance to so much as label it. 'Do you know what he's doing, Molly? He's taken over keeping an eye on Will! He's tucked me into_ his_ bed _every night _since I got back! He's bloody _cooking_! And-and sorting out the christening! And he's just _doing _these things and tearing himself apart and _completely ignoring _the fact that it's so extraordinarily outside of his character that it's _bloody terrifying_!'

'Of course he is.'

'_Of course he is_. What in God's name is _that_ supposed to mean?'

Molly fixed him with a look: half knowing and half amused and entirely infuriating. He lost a weak and manic giggle, his head falling to the table. 'Oh, _god_. How I hate him.'

'You really should.'

He rubbed his face before leaning his cheek against his palm, his eyes exhausted. 'You think I should just kiss him and get it over with, don't you?'

She shrugged. 'You might have to. He's completely impossible.'

'God…' he repeated. His eyes wandered over the other pub-goers, those blessed strangers who had no idea how maddening life could be whilst living with Sherlock Fucking Arsehole Holmes. He chuffed on a laugh. _It must be so boring_. 'I can't believe I'm actually considering this.'

Molly shrugged. 'I can.'

'Shut up,' he sighed. She smiled and ordered him another drink.


	11. The Years Shall Run

That night they lay side-by-side in the downstairs bed and listened to the monitor crackle. Sherlock wished John would fall asleep.

The day had only gotten more awkward as it went on. Sherlock had accepted some time ago that things with John were always going to be, well, a tad strained. Since his return, they had both operated on a silent rule that certain events in their previous life were That of Which They Did Not Speak. Sherlock had left-_died_-and John had moved on, moved _out_, met Mary, and built places in his life into which Sherlock no longer fit. It had been hell, yes, but he couldn't complain, not when he knew he had inadvertently set the whole catastrophe in motion.

But now.

Now there were too many places in John's life where John himself didn't fit, and those unspoken, not-allowed things were creeping up in the corners and taking over. John was sleeping in the bed that had once been theirs and tugging Sherlock down beside him. John was calling him 'love' and using _that_ name-that sweet, awful, ridiculous name that he'd nearly forgotten and adored more than he would ever bring himself to admit-and Sherlock wanted to think all of these things were Good Signs; but Sherlock was Sherlock, and he was more than aware of the fact that all of this was completely outside of his area of expertise. It always had been.

Excepting, of course, for the three best months of his miserable life. Three short months almost four years ago. He swallowed hard. It wouldn't do to blubber now, not with John so close beside him. That would surely ruin everything even more.

If nothing else, he knew he had a terrific talent for ruining things. No one could ever say he was without accomplishments.

'Sherlock?'

He considered just pretending to sleep. It would be easier, he reckoned, than facing the conversation that was surely about to occur. If it had been anyone else, he wouldn't have thought twice about it. 'Yes, John?'

The bed shifted as John rolled to his side. He propped his head up with a hand. 'I think there are some things we need to discuss.'

Sherlock swallowed. 'Must we?'

'We need to, Sherly.'

He closed his eyes, bathing in John's clear and even gaze. There was no point in hiding. There never had been. 'Alright, John.' He shifted onto his side and studied John's face, suddenly so close to his own. For once, the proximity didn't seem strange at all.

John wet his lips, drinking in the uncertain sea before him. 'I'm not sure how to start this.'

'Just say it.'

'Alright.' He took a breath. 'I don't know exactly how to reconcile anything right now.'

'Yes.'

'Right. And it's… The things you've been doing for me and-and Will, they've been brilliant. Of course they have. But I just…' He swallowed. 'Sherlock, I need you to tell me if… If all of this is as, well, as significant as I think it might be. Or…or if it's not. I guess.'

He watched the gears and axles working in Sherlock's mind, the soft flitting of his bright and frightened eyes. It comforted him somehow, knowing Sherlock was as anxious as he found himself to be. 'You've always been significant.'

'That's not what I mean.'

'I know.' His voice so low and soft, reverberating through the expensive fabric of the bedding. 'I want to tell you something. About that day.' John didn't need to ask which day he meant. 'It might make you sad.'

'That's something I'm well acquainted with at this point.' He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth, seeing the tight dilation in Sherlock's pupils, hearing the tiny catch in his breath. He pushed back the knot that had formed in his own throat. 'Tell me. Please.'

Sherlock's eyes flicked away, focusing on the dip in John's throat that peeked over the collar of his too-large t-shirt. He took a long time to speak. 'I know I ruined everything. I know that we've lost so much time in whatever capacity, and all of that was my fault. I didn't want to do what I did, but there wasn't an option. I didn't-' He blinked back the pesky tears that leapt to his assistance, cursing this sudden need to weep hysterically at the drop a hat. 'Well. I digress.'

'That's alright.'

'John.' He forced himself to meet dark, calm eyes. John was sucking on his bottom lip, his hair mottled with grey, his brow creased. Sherlock's chest eased, and, in that moment, he felt as if he had come up for air after years adrift. His voice fell into his chest, deep and rhythmic. 'The hardest thing I have ever done is lay on that pavement with blood on my face and listen to you call for me. The hardest thing I have ever done is allow you to believe I would ever willingly leave this world without you by my side.'

The monitor released a plaintive cry.

'Sherlock-'

'I'll get it.' He was up before he could hear what John was saying, flushed and terrified and racing up the stairs, his mind buzzing with the parting of John's lips and the shift of his pupils that meant anger or fear or-

Or something, anyway.

William was asleep, the sound from the monitor nothing more than an odd passer-by. Sherlock looked out the window and watched a group of uni students on their way home from the pub. One of them was still laughing.

John had followed him up the stairs. He smelled of sandalwood and their sleepless night. Sherlock caught the slightest whiff of Molly's perfume. John was leaning against the doorframe, his hand in the pocket of his borrowed pyjama bottoms. His pulse had increased by fourteen percent.

So. Not angry, then.

He stood beside the crib a moment and watched the baby sleeping, content to feel John's gaze wash over him, unhurried and anxious. Turning around might break the spell, might set off the alarm in John's mind that this was wrong or too soon or not what he wanted after all and Sherlock would have given anything to keep that from happening. So he stayed still and kept quiet. And little William slept soundly. The world turned on for a century at least.

Then: the whisper of John's pyjamas, bare feet shuffling across the carpet. Sherlock shut his eyes. He could feel the ghost of John's breath against his neck.

'Do you remember what I said when we stayed in that hotel in Brussels?'

His fingers closed around the frame of the crib and he allowed his head to hang. 'I remember everything you've ever said to me, John.'

'That night when I was so terribly sick?'

'Yes.'

John's hands were fisted at his sides. He was straining against doing something. He rocked back on his bare heels and took a breath. 'That was one of the best nights of my life.'

He nodded. 'Mine as well.'

John wet his lips. 'Did you think of it at all? When you were away?'

His teeth found the inside of his cheek. William shifted in his sleep and grunted. A passing siren outside the window. The heat of John's skin radiating over him, seeping through his shirt: so close but never touching. He wondered if he was making a terrible mistake, if this would only hurt them both in the long run. He didn't care anymore. Maybe it wasn't the right answer, but it was the only one he knew. 'Every day.' His voice was hoarse, as tired as the rest of him from waiting and wanting and being miserable and playing strong. 'I thought of Brussels and sitting in Angelo's and the little hum you make when you're drinking tea. And I thought of the hot water giving out when we were in the shower and buttons scattering across the carpet and listening to you sleep and every day, every _moment_, all I wanted to do was come home to you. But I couldn't. I ruined everything.'

John touched him then, a warm palm on his back. His lungs caught and shuddered. 'I already told you I forgave you for that.'

'I know. I haven't.' His fingers twitched, aching. 'I wish I could fix this for you. You were supposed to be happy.'

'Could you look at me? Please?'

He took a breath to quell the scratch in his throat and the damp in his eyes. His knuckles were white from gripping the crib. He let go and turned, leaning against the railing for support. Their eyes met. 'I'm so sorry, John. I will never not be sorry. I owe you so many apologies and so many wasted years and I fully intend to spend the rest of my life trying to make it all up to you.'

John was quiet for a long time, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's. His hands hung at his sides, steady and calm. Sherlock wondered at their solemnity. He tasted bile in his throat. 'I need you to be honest with me,' John said at last. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. John's eyes bored into him. 'Do you still want me?'

His grip on the crib tightened. 'Desperately.' He bit down on his tongue and closed his eyes, willing his heart to stop pounding. 'Do you?'

'You already know I do. You can sense it, can't you?'

All he could do was nod. John seemed content to let him drive himself into frenzy. He could feel blue-grey eyes watching his face, reading his every twitch and breath and taste of joy. 'I don't want you to do something you're going to regret-'

'Sherlock.' He met his gaze. How maddening it was to see John so effortlessly composed when it was all he could do not to weep and launch himself at the figure before him. 'My feelings toward you have never changed. You were dead for two years and it only got worse. And then you were back and I was somewhere else and I couldn't have you, and now-' He stopped, his tongue running along the front of his teeth. Sherlock wanted to hold him. 'And now, I need to feel something that doesn't hurt. Just for a little while, I need something good in my life.' He licked his lips. Sherlock tried not to watch his tongue. 'Will you do that for me?'

'I'd do anything for you.' It was the truth. John had wanted the truth. Strange, he should have known all this by now.

John's eyes had darkened in that moment. His heart pounded. 'May I, then?'

Sherlock's shoulders sank. Had he not clung to the crib, his knees would have buckled. 'Of course you can.' He took a breath, his gaze returning to John's. 'You always can.' A tear escaped his eye and streaked down his cheek without his noticing. His voice cracked. 'I want my family back, too.'

It only took a step to close the small gap between them, John's warm, firm hands finding his hip and neck and pulling him in. Sherlock released the railing of the crib and twined his fingers in John's hair. His face nuzzled into the crook of John's neck, breathing him in: cedar and sandalwood and tea on his lips and salt from the tears now rubbing into his skin. And he didn't know what to do. He didn't know what was allowed. But if this was all John wanted, he would never let go. It was enough; it was more than enough.

'Sherlock.' He sniffled back his tears and pulled away from his throat, turning his gaze to John's searching eyes. And then he couldn't breathe any longer.

And it had been so long since he'd felt those lips on his, so long since his stomach had fluttered like this and his mind had stopped its endless whirr to taste and sample and let him simply _be_. His chest ached. His hands relaxed. John's lips parted his. His grip on Sherlock's hip tightened as their tongues touched. He'd taken sugar with his tea. A shot of whiskey to calm his nerves. And there it was: that simple, lovely, excellent thing that he could never define that was just John and exactly what he'd been missing, and he didn't know how he'd survived the years without it but he was so terribly grateful that he had. A soft mewl slipped from his chest and John swallowed it down, pulling Sherlock closer. His hand slid around to press against his lower back and Sherlock wondered why John thought he would try to move away from this. It was such a preposterous idea, he wanted to chide him for it, but that would mean releasing John's lips and why in God's name would he ever do something as ridiculous as that? His palms cupped John's cheeks and he poured into his kiss every regret and apology and lonely night spent begging to the stars that this moment would come to pass.

John broke away, his sweaty brow falling to Sherlock's shoulder. He squeezed Sherlock's neck as he tried to catch his breath. Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, bedding desperate kisses in his hair, on his temple, his cheek. John shook his head and turned to catch Sherlock's lips once more. 'Sherlock,' he said again. He whimpered and didn't care, his lips sloppy and helpless against John's skin. John grabbed his wrist, pinning Sherlock's palm to his cheek. He took a step back from the crib, tugging Sherlock, panting, with him. His heel hit the end of the lilo with a low, final thud. Sherlock caught his gaze and grew dizzy at the storm brewing within. John yanked his wrist and they tumbled onto the lilo, his tongue muffling Sherlock's startled gasp.

The world fell away, dissolving to a blur of bold colours and gentle sounds. Sherlock's mind pulsed contentedly in the beloved void he thought long lost, drinking in the warmth of John's skin, his deliberate touch, his taste which carried with it a thousand cherished memories. He soaked up every moment like rainwater on parched earth, like needed tincture to his ailing heart. Every laboured breath, each certain kiss, every soft caress to his chest or face or iliac crest was like coming home again. They clung to each other, lips tangled, hips thrusting in tandem as if no time had passed at all, as if the years of separation and despair hadn't left their immedicable wounds. The battered lilo shifted and creaked beneath them, its protests unheard as John moaned Sherlock's name against his clavicle and Sherlock bucked and whimpered and came hard between them into John's eager fist.

They lay converged for some time and waited for their breathing to slow, hearts thrashing against one another's ribcages. Sherlock buried his face in John's hair and John counted the hot tears soaking into his scalp. He held him closer and bent to place a kiss to his pale chest. He closed his eyes, limbs heavy and body aching.

'Don't delete this. Please. Not a minute of it.'

His trembling voice, strained and high. 'I won't. You know I won't.'

John's lips sought his out in the darkness, making the promises his words could not.


End file.
